Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  She laughed.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘You.’ She sipped her beer. ‘Whatever it is, it’s been simmering away for weeks. Now it’s ready?’

  ‘You’ve been very patient.’

  ‘You noticed?’ She teased.

  ‘Honestly, I…’

  ‘I’ve also been very worried.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just…’ He shook his head. They should talk. But could they? How could he explain? How could he make her understand? How could he make her understand what he barely understood himself?

  ‘Look, Mark,’ she was suddenly impatient. ‘Time’s running out. You can’t keep on like this. I can’t.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You said that.’

  ‘Okay,’ he set the unfinished beer on the table between them. ‘It’s up to you, really. If it wasn’t for you and the children I’d have no more doubts.’

  ‘Are we talking about your job?’

  ‘It’s been difficult, trying to think clearly. I’ve sorted it out, I think. I hope. It took time, sorting it through. Until I got to the nitty gritty. What really shook me was - when it really comes down to it - who the hell cares?’

  She softened. ‘Fay got to you, didn’t she?’

  ‘Not the way you mean. Not Fay. When I thought it through, I finally understood that it wasn’t Fay herself who got to me. It was what she forced us to confront. The symbol, the symptom, that Fay embodies.’

  ‘That’s too deep for me,’ she sipped her beer. ‘This is supposed to be a holiday, isn’t it?’

  ‘You know it wasn’t,’ he parried. ‘More like recuperation from a long illness.’

  ‘So now it’s over? We can get back to normal?’

  ‘I am sorry. Truly. You’ve been super patient.’

  ‘There’s a limit, Mark.’

  ‘You know I’m grateful. It’s - you - have given me time. I’ve taken a long look. It wasn’t as Mrs Ryan said - personal involvement with the job. It was so much more. From this distance, I can see what really happened. Now I can understand what it all really means.’

  ‘Still, you did care about Fay.’

  ‘Of course. That’s it. I did care. I really did care. I do care. I care about working with these kids. I care about what’s happening to them.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why was Fay so important?’

  ‘She brought it all together. What if she’d had a fair go at school? What if she hadn’t been dumped as ineducable? What if she hadn’t been shoved into the too-hard basket?’

  ‘Is that fair? Teachers aren’t prepared. Or trained, or…’

  ‘Sure it’s not fair. What’s fair? Who are we going to be fair to? Over-worked teachers in over-large classes? Administrators without a hope of stretching inadequate resources? Staff getting damned near no help when we’re out of our depth?’

  ‘You mean - if they’d called in help when she’d first needed it?’

  ‘Exactly. If there’d been resources,’ he fumed. ‘I don’t know. Madeleine Evans - somebody – anybody…. While she was little, they could have maybe prevented all this unhappiness. When she was young enough. Surely some constructive informed intervention somehow would have prevented all this.’

  ‘So,’ she was thoughtful. ‘For Fay, I can agree. I can see what you’re saying. All that unhappiness could maybe have been avoided. What about Meryl? What about Clem? And Don and– What about all the others?’

  ‘The social. Remember the social?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Our kids. It was a special effort for special kids.’

  ‘What’s the problem with that?’ she wondered. ‘I thought it was wonderful. Those church people, giving up their time. Going out of their way. They were very kind.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ In the pre-moon gloom his voice was darkly bitter.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean!’

  ‘They were kind. Kind? It’s a charity kindness. It makes our kids second class kids. Why should they have to beg for measured handouts? Handouts of kindness! Donations of goodwill! Annually rationed! A social a year, no other contact considered - say thank you, dummies. The rest of the year we’ll pass you by on the other side of the damned street!’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘What about acceptance!’ He raged. ‘What about just accepting our kids as equal! They’re not allowed to socialise as equals. They’re granted hand-me-down tolerance. What does that do? It reinforces the belief that the so-called normal kids are superior. As though that needs reinforcing! It’s too bloody strong in the first place.’

  ‘You must calm down. Please.’

  ‘As for the Vicar! He hasn’t a clue! He’s dishing out charity. Bloody handouts to the inferior! He’s perpetuating inequality! He’s encouraging the mentality of do-gooding that robs the recipients of their dignity.’

  ‘Sh – you’ll wake the children.’

  ‘I’m talking about acceptance. What about acceptance? Clem and Meryl and Trixie and all the others - Laura. They’re people, for God’s sake! They’re equal. Why are they separated? Why are they beggars?’ His momentarily lowered voice again began to climb. ‘Why do they have to be grateful for handouts? Why the hell should they be grateful for…. ’

  ‘Sh - Please Mark, you’ll frighten the children.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He refilled his glass.

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Mark. But, be honest. What about children like Laura?’

  ‘Laura? Sure, maybe I can see a case for special education for the more profoundly affected kids. Except, you tell me - why couldn’t she have been at that damned social? No one even thought of arranging for her to be there.’

  ‘To say thank you for her share of condescending charity?’ She lightly rejoined.

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it to be funny, Mark. You can’t have it both ways.’

  ‘True. It just brings it home all the more. Even within the Centre’s segregated walls, there’s this inequality of acceptance. There’s this segregation within segregation. There’s these layers of acceptance.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It stands out when they reach their teens. You’ve seen it. Fay and Peter and the others are accepted as more or less worthy human beings - not Laura. Laura’s a nothing. Nobody treats her as a person. I’ve even heard Adele Turner talk baby talk to her!’

  ‘Only Laura?’

  ‘There are more subtle layers. But that one says it all.’

  ‘Complex.’ She sipped thoughtfully.

  ‘There’s no quick fixes. No easy answers. The problem is - we’re not even asking the questions.’

  ‘So which question would you want to ask first?’

  ‘Ah….’ The late moon, rising from the black sea, lit his puzzled face. ‘I haven’t even got that far yet.’

  ‘How far have you got?’

  ‘I keep remembering when we were at school. Remember? There were no fancy special schools, no training centres, no handouts of fake sympathy. Kids like Clem came to school with us.’

  ‘Oh Mark! Come on! A couple at most. Two or three in a whole school. Most stayed at home.’

  She was right. Why had he started this?

  ‘What about the ones who stayed at home?’ Jenny insisted. ‘What about the few kids who did come to school with us? You remember them, the ones who were teased? Ostracised? Abysmally lonely? Don’t kid yourself. You’re dreaming.’

  Again she was right. Except…? He needed more thinking time. ‘I’ll get another bottle.’

  ‘Not for me, Mark. I’ll have a coke.’

  She waited until he’d re-settled. ‘Thought about it?’

  ‘You’re right,’ he admitted.

  ‘Of course I’m right. There’s no way those kids were tolerated. They had a terrible time. So what’s your point?’

  ‘So listen to yourself,’ he insisted. ‘Just listen.’
r />   ‘What am I supposed to be listening to?’

  ‘You’re saying you saw them,’ he answered. ‘You’re saying you knew they were there. You grew up beside them. They had a terrible time. Sure. No argument. But they weren’t shut away from you. Listen to yourself. You remember their loneliness. You remember the intolerance. It bothers you. Where do you think that comes from?’

  Bright in the rising moon, her eyes widened. ‘I remember! God! I used to be so angry, so upset. I watched them being teased. I didn’t do anything about it. Not a damned thing!’

  ‘It still upsets you.’

  ‘More than ever,’ she agreed. ‘You know that.’

  ‘So,’ he accused. ‘Why didn’t you do something?’

  ‘Why?’ She thought about it. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Because you haven’t thought it through.’

  ‘I remember….’ She paused. ‘I remember fear. Was it because I was frightened?’

  ‘Of what?’ He should not have started this. He had. Doggedly, he continued: ‘What were you frightened of, Jen?’

  ‘You think…!’ She gasped.

  ‘You got it,’ he whispered. ‘You were frightened your classmates would turn on you.’

  ‘If I did something I risked being ostracized too? I was frightened of standing out from the crowd?’

  ‘Frightened to be different, Jen. You were scared of being different.’

  ‘But I knew there was difference. I did see those kids. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘You knew they were there. You knew they were unhappy. And you still feel guilty that you were too cowardly to stick up for them. This generation doesn’t even know enough to feel guilty. They don’t even know enough to share the blame for the way society treats them.’

  ‘Because most kids don’t even know they exist.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m saying that for those of us who did see kids like Clem, even if we didn’t stand up for them – some of us decided we wanted to make life better for them when we grew up.’

  ‘You had a head start,’ she reminded him. ‘You had Jason. You wished he’d had a better deal.’

  If only it were that simple. It wasn’t. Because Jason was his brother. Because that had made him, too, different. Because he knew bigotry in his guts. Because he’d been ridiculed. Because he’d been lonely. Because….

  Responding to his renewed silence, Jenny pressed: ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing…’ He hesitated. Was this the time to confide those disturbing memories? He’d never been able to, not yet. Maybe now? No, not now. Tonight they would only add to the complexities, and gain nothing. ‘Just memories,’ he explained. ‘Jason missed out on so much.’

  ‘Which is exactly why you chose to teach in the Centre.’

  ‘Teach!!!’

  ‘Sh! The children. You’ll wake…’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jen. I’m really sorry. It’s too hard. I’m not ready for all this.’

  ‘What will happen to Fay?’

  ‘I don’t know. One thing….’ He stopped.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s late.’ He capped the unfinished beer bottle. ‘Maybe tomorrow, after we’ve had a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘It won’t be the same tomorrow. You know that.’

  Again she was right. ‘If you must know,’ he admitted, ‘I feel like a traitor.’

  ‘So that’s what’s been eating at you. That’s idiotic. You did so much for her. So much more than any other teacher before you.’

  ‘Not many people would agree with you about that,’ he shrugged. ‘Except, one thing I do know. Whatever eventually happens to Fay, she’ll never shake it off. She’s been at The Glenlea. She’s not normal. She’s different. She’s stuck with that for life.’

  ‘Everyone’s different in some way, Mark. It’s a cliché. But it’s true.’

  ‘Sure,’ he scoffed. ‘Difference is as simple as red hair in China. Black skin in Sweden.’

  ‘Too glib,’ she scolded. ‘That’s acceptable difference. You could go on forever. Until you get to intellectual disability? That’s unacceptable difference. Right?’

  ‘Not really,’ he argued. ‘It depends…’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On what degree of slow is slow. How dumb is dumb?’

  ‘That’s cruel.’

  ‘It’s truth. It’s how people think.’

  ‘You’re back to Laura,’ Jenny nodded. ‘Where does she fit?’

  ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head. Do you know who’s done as much for Fay as any single other person? And that includes me. It’s Laura!’

  ‘So everyone is special? Is that it?’

  ‘Exactly. When Fay saw she could help someone else, when she saw she had something to give someone else. That was the first step.’

  ‘I remember,’ she smiled. ‘That was a real break-through. So how was Fay helping Laura different from the Youth Group helping Fay? Wasn’t it the same? A condescending ego trip?’

  ‘Sure. Until Fay took the next step. Laura responded by trying to please Fay. She laughed and smiled and stayed awake. So, over time, Fay began to see Laura the person.’

  ‘It took time. Not like the quick-fix social.’

  ‘It took time,’ he agreed. ‘It took a lot of things coming together. The critical next step was that Fay welcomed Laura as her friend.’

  ‘That’s the step the do-gooders never take!’

  ‘Maybe they can learn. I don’t know. Whatever it was, the point is that Fay became comfortably equal. She’d learned to appreciate the - the essence - the humanity of Laura. Think about it.’

  ‘So Fay got more than she gave. Have you talked about this with any of the teachers?’

  ‘You know better.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re not interested. They have no doubts.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They’re all perfectly happy proving themselves as experts in an area that is just beginning to open up. As I was.’

  ‘They care, too.’

  ‘Do they? Or are they on an ego trip?’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that!’ Glass in hand, he paced the narrow porch. ‘It’s early days. There’s a long way to go. So yes, I can come to terms with what’s happened to Fay. I can accept the proposition that it’s even necessary to provide some kind of segregated schooling. There’s even some sort of inevitability about the lack of funding and the handout mentality and all the rest of it! But the teachers! That’s just too much. I can’t… I can’t…’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘No one is willing to think. To ask the hard questions. Some don’t even see there are hard questions.’

  ‘What should they be asking? Specifically?’

  ‘I have a number one beaut. Why are we expected to limit ourselves to kindergarten type programs?’

  ‘Professor Lawrence?’

  ‘A great lady. Her specialty? Kindergartens. The speciality of a hell of a lot of lecturers and experts I come across. It’s not good enough. The Centre I visited. Teenage kids cutting out Christmas card pictures and sticking them in bloody books. You could have carpeted the whole damned place with scrapbooks.’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘It’s so damned aimless.’

  ‘You still said nothing.’

  ‘Because I blew it at the Conference. I stuck my neck out too soon. After that, it was a waste of time to try. The teachers are so wrapped in their own cleverness, they don’t look past their own noses.’

  ‘Not everybody, Mark. That’s not fair.’

  ‘You’re right. Again. Though for the few teachers I suspect feel as I feel, it’s got to be like it was for you at school.’

  ‘Frightened to stand out from the crowd?’

  ‘I watched it happen. The experts, the one’s with the high qualifications, they walked all over them. It’s safer to just fold their hands and take it. Sure, a few probably
even protest for a while. Then it’s over. Done. If it happens more often, we never hear about it. As far as I know, no one fights the system. God!’

  ‘The Professor spoke to you, Mark. She…’

  ‘She whispered words of encouragement,’ he sneered. ‘Then she left! No one even bloody acts, let alone stands up and fights! Not for the kids. Go have a holiday, Mark. Get your own safe little life back on track and come back and toe the bloody line, sir. Or leave.’

  ‘You should be grateful to Mrs Ryan. She knew how worn out you were.’

  ‘Do you know what she said? She said forget it. Forget it! Forget a sixteen year old girl has been abused. Forget nobody will believe her story of rape because she’s a poor dumb kid from The Glenlea. Forget the family won’t do anything because they’re scared of consequences. Forget it because the bloody rapist or seducer or whatever he really is, is a sports hero from the right side of the tracks! Forget it! She said forget it.’

  ‘You must forget it, Mark. You really must.’

  ‘She also expects Fay to forget it.’

  ‘She will.’ She took his hand. ‘She will, dear.’

  ‘You know that!’ He was very angry.

  She refused to acknowledge his justifiable rage. ‘Time heals, Mark. It heals. No matter how bad we feel. Give yourself time.’

  ‘You go on in,’ he begged. ‘Leave me a while.’

  ‘Not like this.’

  He looked upward at the glittering stars close enough to touch, at the risen moon’s reflection silvering a path across the motionless sea. He’d come here to use time. To use it to rest. He was rested. Tonight something critical was happening. Thank God for Jenny.

  ‘Time,’ he mused. ‘Did you know some Eastern philosophy suggests there is no past and no future? All of time is laid out like a map. Only it’s not a geographical chart, it’s a time map. You can place a finger here, or there. Just as you can place a finger on Italy or China or whatever, so you can place your finger on a hundred years ahead or a hundred years past. You can hit on the moment in time you choose. Past. Present. Future.’

  ‘I’ve heard a bit.’

  ‘It takes away the immediacy, the pressure. It puts our little time span in perspective. Think of it, a time map.’ Who cares? Why care?

  ‘So that makes all this pointless. It makes your job pointless. It means - don’t worry, she’ll be right Jack?’